Southern Cross

by Stephen Greenleaf

  “Then why don’t you get the fuck out of here?”

  I couldn’t come up with a reason.

  TWENTY-TWO

  On the way back to Seth’s office, I drove by his son’s apartment and tried again to connect with him, but no one answered my knock and no one emerged to challenge me the way Furman had during my first visit. When I looked through the window to make sure there were still signs of life in the place, the only thing I saw that was different from my first visit was a weapon leaning against the wall beneath the Nazi flag, surrounded by a nest of ammunition clips. It looked like a MAC-10 or similar engine of rapid-fire destruction, which meant it looked at once terrifying and childish.

  On my way to the car, I checked the directory for Forrest Bedford’s name but didn’t find a listing. What I found five minutes later was a booth with a phone book in it at a gas station on Calhoun, but when I looked for Bedford in the listings, I came up with the same result. Empty all around, I parked the Thunderbird in the lot from which I’d claimed it and took the key back to the office.

  Elmira was precisely as glad to see me as she had been three hours earlier. “He in?” I asked her.

  She glanced at her console. “Phone.”

  “I’d like to see him when he’s free.”

  She consulted her book. “He’s got a client coming in at noon.”

  Everyone in Charleston except me was booked to capacity. “I’ll be brief,” I promised.

  I started to repair to the waiting room but fired a shot in the dark instead. “You don’t happen to know Seth’s son, do you?”

  “Colin?” For the first time ever, the smile fell off her face. “Sure, I know him. Or used to. We were in the same class at Bishop England. He took me to the summer formal.” I thought she suppressed a shudder. “He totally trashed my dress; Mama could have killed him.”

  “What’s this England place?”

  “A school.”

  “Private?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rich kids?”

  She stiffened. “It’s not like up North—lots of kids go to private schools down here, even black kids. Bishop England has all kinds of people on scholarship.”

  “When’s the last time you saw Colin?”

  She shrugged. “Months. I talk to him once in a while. On the phone, I mean.”

  “What about?”

  “His daddy. How his cases are coming along, things like that. I think Colin wants to be a lawyer. Fat chance,” she added meanly.

  “Any idea where I can reach him?”

  “He used to live over by the college.”

  “I tried there; he’s not home very often. Active social life, I guess.”

  Her laugh was as purely cruel as only attractive young women can be. “Colin? Social life? Excuse me.”

  “Do you know a friend of his named Bedford?”

  Elmira shook her head. “The only friend I ever heard he had was Broom. Maybe he’s at her place.”

  “Broom what?”

  “Broom’s all I ever heard anybody call her.” Her smile was smug. “Maybe because she was such a witch.”

  “Where’s Broom live?”

  “A slum north of Calhoun with a bunch of other punker trash.” Elmira wriggled her fingers fastidiously, as if to be rid of the recollection.

  “What’s Broom do? Is she a student?”

  She shook her head. “Tends bar at a place called the Pustule; it’s up by the bridge. Guys like to go there to hear her talk dirty.”

  “Tell me some more about Colin.”

  Elmira waited till she had something to say. “When I first knew him, which was when we were about twelve, Colin was real popular. Dressed real nice, had real nice manners; just like his daddy, you know? But something happened, when we were in tenth grade or thereabouts, and Colin turned upside down—dressed like street trash, swore like a trucker, came on like a cannibal with girls. Seemed like he was working real hard at being everything his daddy wasn’t; got good at it, too.”

  “What do you think caused the change?”

  She shrugged. “Lots of kids get weird in those years. My friend Sissy lived in the garage for six months.”

  “Do you think Colin’s problem had something to do with being Jewish?”

  Elmira was surprised. “Is he? I never knew. I don’t think anyone else did, either.”

  “How about the black kids in school? Did Colin have trouble with them?”

  “You mean anything special? Not that I know of. Things got tense every once in a while, but nothing ever happened. Usually.”

  “Was Colin politically active?”

  “Only if metal heads are political.”

  “Is he violent, would you say? Did he ever get in that kind of trouble?”

  Her eyes grew cool and angry. “The main trouble he had was keeping his hands where they belonged.”

  I took a stab. “Are you talking rape?”

  Her nose twitched. “Nothing that bad. More like coming on too strong and not behaving himself when he was told to. When word got around about his manners, no one would talk to him anymore; no one that mattered, at least. He’s real angry at something, I know that. And he feels real sorry for himself. Colin’s a loser, is what it comes down to. No one likes him except Broom. Why I went to the ball with him I’ll never know—kids still buzz me about it.”

  A light on her console lit up. Elmira returned to her business while I went to the waiting room and thumbed through an issue of Southern Life. When Seth emerged from his office, his mood was edgy and distracted.

  “Come on in,” he said stiffly. “But I’ve only got a minute.”

  I followed him into his lair and waited while he closed the door. “Have you found him?” he asked on his way to his chair.

  “Colin?” I shook my head. “I know where he lives, but no one’s been home when I’ve gone by. But I’ve made progress.”

  “What?”

  “I managed to talk to the Field Marshal.”

  Seth’s breath quickened. “Who is it?”

  “The guy Last told me about: Forrest Bedford. It’s likely he’s the one you spoke to on the phone. I’m meeting him tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “Hampton Park.”

  “Why there?”

  “ASP is staging some kind of protest out there at six. I’m meeting Bedford afterward.”

  “I suppose Colin will be there.”

  “Probably.”

  Seth placed a hand over his eyes, as if the facts that chilled his mind would melt if he did so. “Can I come along?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “I need to understand this, Marsh. I need to know why Colin’s doing what he’s doing. Maybe if I know what ASP is preaching, I can come up with a way to counter them before it gets out of hand.”

  As far as I was concerned, it was already out of hand, and Seth’s presence would only be counterproductive. “I doubt Bedford knows or cares about your son’s inner motivations, Seth. And I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to get more involved than you are—the only way to get anything out of Bedford is if I’m undercover.”

  “I can’t sit back and do nothing.”

  The expression on Seth’s face, coupled with the memory of Alameda Smallings sitting stoically beside me while she endured the slur of the day before, caused me to change my tune.

  “Bedford and I are meeting at the entrance to the ballpark out there,” I told him. “He’s probably going to take me somewhere else before we get down to business—he’s paranoid about security. Maybe you could lurk around the park and tail us wherever we go in case Bedford sees through my act and decides to rough me up.”

  Seth tried for a joke. “I hope you’re not trying to pass yourself off as a redneck, Tanner—you don’t have the tan for it.”

  “I’m a white Christian patriot off the plane from Denver. What I want Bedford to think is that if he passes muster, I’m going to pony up ten grand to help him save the race.”

&
nbsp; Seth shook his head. “This is starting to get spooky, pal.”

  “It’s been spooky for two hundred years,” I said, then amended my scenario. “Maybe I’d better find my backup somewhere else. I saw an automatic weapon at Colin’s place. Things could get nasty if Bedford gets upset.”

  Seth slammed a palm on his desk so hard the windows rattled. “This is my problem, remember? You’re not some mercenary I scraped out of the Yellow Pages, for Christ’s sake; you’re my friend. If there’s danger in this, I want to be there.”

  “You don’t need to. Really.”

  Seth stood and began to pace, then looked at me till I squirmed. “That time junior year? When we got caught swiping food from the kitchen and you got suspended and I didn’t?”

  “What about it?”

  “The reason I stayed in school was because I ratted you out. Someone saw us coming out the window. They knew me, but they didn’t recognize you. They went to the dean, and he put heat on me to squeal. I gave you up so I could pitch against St. John’s that weekend.”

  Seth reviewed what he’d said, then edited it. “I wanted to save my ass because I was afraid I’d get kicked out of school and my future would be ruined. I wouldn’t get into law school; I wouldn’t get a decent job. Plus I was afraid I’d end up in Vietnam.”

  “That’s kid stuff, Hartman. It didn’t matter then, and it doesn’t matter now. I enjoyed the vacation.”

  “Of course it mattered—you might have gotten a tryout with the Twins if you hadn’t missed those games.”

  “So you saved me from life in the minor leagues. Big deal.”

  “It was lousy, Marsh. The lousiest thing I ever did, except maybe my divorce. If I go out there with you tonight, maybe it’ll make up for it a little.” Seth looked at the law books that crawled across his walls, the ones that defined what we mean by justice. “I never was the person you thought I was, you know.”

  “Sure you were,” I told him. “You were just too modest to believe it.”

  We shared uneasy silence as we examined the fault lines in our memories. “Something else happened,” Seth said finally, his voice tight in the hush of the room.

  “What?”

  “Another client heard from the Field Marshal.”

  “Tape recording?”

  He shook his head. “Phone call.”

  “Saying what?”

  Seth consulted some notes. “That I was an enemy of the South and an agent of alien interests. If he didn’t sever his personal and professional relationships with me, and plead guilty to the crimes he’d committed, he’d be exposed and destroyed.”

  “Who’s the client?”

  “Monroe Morrison. A state legislator indicted in the bribery sting. The one who’s running for Congress.”

  “What was his reaction to the call?”

  “Fear, I imagine. People ignore the race police at their peril down here.”

  “Is he bailing out on you?”

  “He’s on the fence. Hasn’t quit me yet, but he’s wavering.”

  “Is he a full-time politician?”

  Seth shook his head. “Owns a funeral parlor up on Rutledge Avenue.”

  “Is he black?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose it would hurt your reputation, to have him jump ship.”

  “Sure it would. He’s a respected leader in this town, by both blacks and whites; if he discharged me, it would make waves. Plus the reason would eventually come out—ASP and the rest of it; most likely Colin’s involvement, too. I think I can convince him to stick with me. He’s a client, but he’s a friend, too. He’s the first black man I met when I came south in the sixties.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “He was field secretary for SNCC. Ran the registration drive in South Carolina.”

  “Does Morrison have political enemies?”

  “All politicians have enemies.”

  “Are any of them White Christian Patriots?”

  “That goes without saying, doesn’t it? Black competence at any level undercuts the concept of white supremacy.”

  “What I mean is, if he goes to jail or pleads guilty to a felony, someone else would get the nomination.”

  Seth shook his head. “I know what you’re getting at, but the district Monroe represents in Columbia and the one he’s running in for Congress are both predominately black, thanks to recent redistricting. If you’re wondering who might stand to profit politically if Monroe goes to jail, it will almost certainly be another African-American. I doubt that ASP would be doing them any favors.”

  The political angle was the only lead I had, so I was reluctant to let it go. “Who’s Morrison’s main political adversary?”

  “A man named Aldee Blackwell.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “The Panther Bar on Upper King Street. Aldee holds forth from ten to three every night.” Seth paused. “I don’t recommend you go up there alone.”

  “Does Blackwell have political ambitions?”

  “Aldee fancies himself a kingmaker. Tries to handpick every black politician in the Low Country, so they’ll owe their jobs to him and be appropriately grateful when the time comes. He’s as determined as ASP and about as ruthless. Rumor has it he killed a man once—a business partner he thought was stealing from him—but he never got charged.”

  I had more questions, but a buzzer buzzed on the desk in front of me. Seth twitched at the sound as though it were a gunshot, suggesting the state of his nerves.

  “Sorry, Marsh,” he said. “There’s someone I’ve got to see. Is there anything else you need?”

  “Just to borrow the car about five. Can you hunt up another one for yourself?”

  “I’ll borrow Jane Jean’s. What time’s your meeting with Bedford?”

  “Eight.”

  “I’ll be there. Do we need a signal or something? So I’ll know when to move in?”

  “The signal is when they start shooting.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Seth hurried to lunch with his client, apologizing again for deserting me. Uncertain of my next step, I wandered to East Bay Street and browsed some bookstores. While I was waiting to pay for my purchases, I eavesdropped on a conversation between the proprietor and one of his customers concerning the Battle of Sharpsburg. Their description of the carnage couldn’t have been more vivid had the men been wounded there themselves.

  When I could get a word in edgewise, I asked the proprietor if he had any materials from the Alliance for Southern Pride. When he shook his head without a glitch of recognition, it didn’t surprise me.

  By the time I’d consumed a salami sandwich and a lemonade at Subway, I was pretty much exhausted. The heat, the humidity, the energetic night with Scar—the combination had rendered me sapped and sluggish. My ideas as depleted as my energies, I trudged my way toward the Home.

  Halfway down the cobblestone street that traveled to the rear of my digs, I sensed I was being watched. I slowed to a stroll, loitered to look in the window of a law office that inhabited what looked like a dungeon, then whirled around in hope of taking my nemesis by surprise. The only movement I detected came from the parking lot across the street—a young man ducked behind a car just before I got a good look at him.

  The lot belonged to a bank; the cars belonged to its customers. As I watched from across the street, a woman came out of the bank and got in the car next to the place I’d last seen the boy who seemed to be tailing me.

  The car drove off. The young man crouched behind it as long as he could, then took off running toward the door at the rear of the bank, the only means of escape that didn’t bring him closer to my post. Since my interest in a footrace was less than avid, I trotted after him as best I could, but not fast enough to alarm him.

  When he reached the door to the bank, he dared a quick look back. Although my glimpse of him was momentary, I knew immediately who he was even though his scalp was shaved bald and his eyes were as big as biscuits. As often happens i
n my business, the mountain had come to Muhammad.

  By the time I was through the bank and into Broad Street, Colin Hartman had disappeared. Wondering at his mission, I went back to my room, lay down after removing my shoes, and fell asleep—something in the atmosphere acted on me as a sedative.

  When I woke up, I rummaged in my briefcase until I found the reunion materials, then turned to the page in the book for Gil Hayward. Gil was in import-export, his bio said. He lived on Musgrave Street in Jersey City and had a wife named June and children named Rita, Paul, and Gary. I dialed the number.

  “Yeah?”

  “Gil?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Marsh Tanner.”

  “Who? Oh. Tanner. How’s it going?”

  “Okay. How about you?”

  “Glad to be out of the corn country. You, too, right? Frisco probably looks pretty good after a weekend on the farm.”

  “I’m not in Frisco, I’m in the Low Country.”

  “Holland?”

  “South Carolina. With Seth.”

  “Oh.”

  “I called because I’ve got a question.”

  “Can’t make it,” he said quickly. “Sorry. Off to Taiwan tomorrow.”

  I let his assumption stand. “That’s too bad. We could have had a blast.”

  “Yeah. Maybe next year.”

  “Right. Anyway, since you can’t come down, I’ve got a second question.”

  “What about?”

  “Aldo Benedetti.”

  When he spoke again, his voice was guarded and atonal. “What about him?”

  “Know him?”

  “Not personally.”

  “By reputation?”

  “Sure.”

  “What is it?”

  “What’s what?”

  “His reputation.”

  “Tough.”

  “How tough?”

  “Tough enough to retire.” Gil’s chuckle was raw and clipped. “The story goes that Aldo calls the guys together in Newark—dinner at some dago joint on the water. Everyone sitting around after the cacciatore or whatever, smoking stogies and telling lies, when the waiters sweep in with dessert plates covered with those silver dome things they use when they want to be fancy. Anyway, they wait till everyone’s got a plate in front of him, then pull off the tops.”